Like Glass
by Hisa-Ai
Summary: He could at least revel in Merlin's touch, could at least breathe in the gentle caresses between all the roughhousing among the knights and the battles that left him bruised and scarred in the most familiar of ways. He could allow himself that one, selfish indulgence, and couldn't have asked for more. And yet still, Merlin gave him more anyway.


**This was inspired by a line in the song _1965_ by Zella Day that goes all like:**

 _I never had nobody touch me like I'm glass._

 **Disclaimer:** I own nothing, as per ush.

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 _Like Glass (Breakable)_

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Arthur was a knight, he was a warrior, hardened by battle and loss and a father who had a stubborn and too sure opinion of just _what_ a man and prince was supposed to be. He was used to swords, and daggers, and hits meant to disarm and kill in the worst of circumstances, and shoves, slaps, and playful punches meant to show amusement and endearment in the best of circumstances. He was a warrior, and he was treated like one, and he treated others just as he would his fellow knight and warrior.

His calloused and scarred skin didn't leave anyone with the impression that he'd ever been handled carefully, that he was _truly_ as spoiled as some might like to think he was. He fought and worked hard every second of his life, and that was fine. It was all _fine_. He didn't know anything else, and dear God, it was _fine_. It was hardly worth a second thought, really, all the hard touches he'd ever been on the receiving end of, and the ones he used with others as well, because it was all he knew.

Until Merlin.

Merlin's fingers were just as calloused as Arthur's were, but his touch was always light, never harsh in the way Arthur was used to. At first, it was puzzling, why Merlin was so gentle with him when he went about dressing him or helping him with his armor, because Arthur could handle it if he wasn't, he wasn't some soft, weak, spoiled brat, he thought with some disdain. And if Merlin's opinion of Arthur was truly _that_ awful that he thought he had to be so damned careful with him, then Arthur didn't know why, some days, he kept Merlin around.

But he did anyway.

And slow as the seasons, something about Merlin's careful touch became a comfort. He hadn't realized that there were more gentle ways to express fondness and affection—not for a knight, not for a warrior—but now that he _knew_ … he could come to enjoy it, really. And lifelong habits were hell to break, so he feared he would never be able to touch anyone the way Merlin touched _him_ , but he could at least revel in Merlin's touch, could at least breathe in the gentle caresses between all the roughhousing among the knights and the battles that left him bruised and scarred in the most familiar of ways. He could allow himself that one, selfish indulgence, and couldn't have asked for more.

And yet still, Merlin gave him more anyway. He gave him more in the way of ghosting kisses and gentle thrusts, softer touches still, somehow, coupled with careful words, mumbled _I love yous,_ that grew braver as the days grew behind them.

Those days grew into years suddenly, somehow, and though Arthur might have grown _used_ to it, he never quite stopped wondering about it—about why Merlin would treat him with those touches from the very _beginning_ when their words were always biting and arguing, and they were still merely meant to be prince and manservant and _nothing_ more, let alone _so much_ more _._

So it was easy, when he was king, and Merlin was safely curled around him in the middle of the night one cool night and the covers were thrown half off the pair of them, to finally wonder about it quietly, voice thick with the chase of sleep he hadn't quite won yet. His curiosity had always been bound to get the better of him.

"Why do you always do it, Merlin?" he asked.

"Do _what_? I haven't _done_ anything tonight." Merlin whined, grip tightening ever so _slightly_ with the half-asleep declaration.

Arthur smile to himself, leaned back into Merlin's embrace.

"Yes you have. When you touch me, you always… treat me like I'm fragile. Why?"

"Because you are. So's your ego, for that matter."

"I'm being serious, Merlin," Arthur insisted, turning around in Merlin's embrace and readjusting himself so he had a proper look into Merlin's half-lidded eyes. "No one has ever treated me like I'm _breakable_ before. Why have you always done that? For as long as you've been my servant, and my lover… I feel like I could actually fall apart at any moment when you touch me sometimes. Why is that?"

Merlin gave a half shrug, and leaned in to kiss him slowly in lieu of an immediate answer. Arthur accepted the gesture greedily, and Merlin's hand came up to trace along his cheek carefully in the darkened room for the lingering moment, reminding Arthur of the words he'd just spoken. His face, he thought, could easily fall away and apart, crumble under Merlin's fingertips, and he would have been _perfectly_ happy to allow it to happen.

When he pulled away carefully, gently, Merlin gave him a small, considering look, and said, finally, "It's… because you _are_. Breakable. You're only human, Arthur. Knight—warrior—prince—king—all that doesn't matter, you're still only _human_ , you're still only **_breakable_** —not in a bad way or anything, just… in a _human_ way. In a _beautiful_ way. And I love you for it, alright? I always have. Can we please go to sleep now?"

Arthur felt his lips tug upwards slightly as he let out an endeared and amused huff of air, he wanted to prod and poke, wanted to make Merlin elaborate even further on that, but, ah, he could let the matter rest for the night, he decided, leaning in to press an agreeing kiss to Merlin's forehead, Merlin's answer and embrace was _just enough_ to hold him over until then.

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End file.
